1965-03-10 - What Happens In Nawlins
Summary: Stays in Nawlins, doesn't it?
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
lucian michael 


Cafe du Monde.

The French Quarter in the season of Lent carries some hints of action. Handsome red brick buildings overlook crowds attracted to the old city, admiring the overcast weather twenty degrees warmer than mainstream cities in the Northeast. Stately architecture so unlike Boston red brick or New York brownstone hearkens to the tourist eye, and the Cafe Du Monde resolves to be the landmark cafe it is under shingled roof and green awnings that hawk 'Original French Market Coffee Stand' and 'Best of Beignets.'

Tourists wait patiently in line for a chance to sit under the awning, but the trees spread their green leaves and offer shade. The chance of rain may be low. Whatever one can say, at least it's early enough only the hardcore visitors gather by the doors for their chance at a takeaway tray carrying the pillow-shaped pastries and a mug of joe, both liberally sprinkled no doubt by powdered sugar.

Lucian slouches a step towards Bethlehem as it were, his self-control a thin veneer over a tumultuous sense of being. The city has old, old sins and a venal spirit, threatening to pull at the highly attenuated sensitivity for such things. Vegas may be the City of Sin; New Orleans is the Queen of Corruption, and holding to his brighter aspect is all the harder when temptation oozes from every paving stone like the Mississippi. Gluttony, then, is on the menu.

Michael has found beads in the trees, faded already. That didn't stop him from lifting them down with his wingtips and putting them on, so his drab veteran's garb is adorned by gold and purple and green strands. He's even wound them around his wrists. There's that air of something between a saint's shining innocence and sheer village idiocy on him, all wide-eyed curiosity as he wanders along in Lucian's wake.

The rainbow-hued strands of wornout plastic beads make for an unusual addition to any man's wardrobe, even in a place as licentious as these. Lucian makes little comment, but he occasionally side-eyes his brother while the line drags through the dawntide, dragging them in closer to the maw of sugary doom. His wings are slightly unfurled as they typically are, albeit it would take a very sensitive instrument to even see the atom-thick structure absorbing the sunlight. Twitches of his shoulder blades occasionally stir up the latticework of feathers unnoticed by the typical diners, zombies seeking coffee uninterested in the two Firstborn in their midst. "You know they're going to think you are drunk. Say yes if they do."

His wings get petted, because Mike can't help himself, gentle pats at what only he and Lu can see. Yep. Looks drunk for certain. "Okay," he says, blithely. "Sure. There's sugar here, you're telling me? In some new form?"

The singing filaments of sunlight radiate under the touch, specklings of rose and copper painted on the faintest sheen. Lucian typically freezes at any contact with those glorious appendages — angels and their pride, after all. Ruffling pinions backwards are a great way to earn a punch to the face. Drunk indeed, while the Morningstar brightens his general vicinity in an imperceptable way, hardening the lines of creation that little more more. "They have confectioner's sugar sprinkled on those." He gestures idly at a pillowy pastry. "Fried dough. Yeast-based pastry."

This is careful preening. He misses grooming Lucian, and is forgetful enough to do it just a little now, because he can. But he leaves off after a moment. "Ooh," he says, gaze following it. He doesn't need to eat. Where's the fascination?

Grooming him might just warrant Michael having a new career: beautician. Hairstylist? Barber? Not that far from the master of war, the first and the greatest of battles. The awning-clad entrance beckons and Lucian folds his wings, stepping into the foyer and proceeding straight up to a counter. Forget those staring unsure of what they want, the menu very clearly is beignets and coffee. Which he orders, promptly. "Two for me, ten for him, and two cups of coffee," to some bemused New Orleanean.

"I have money," he notes to Lucian, abruptly. And then he's digging in his wallet for it. He hasa wallet, a worn canvas thing that must've been bought at Goodwill.

Money is easily enough coughed up so he doesn't have to? Lucian steps aside to allow Michael the privilege of the transaction while he slouches gracefully along, picking up a tray with the hot coffee. Adulteration for him doesn't happen. Cream, sugar? Never. For Michael? Sixteen teaspoons while Michael isn't looking.

This guy is obviously a maniac, says the expression of the girl at the counter, her professional smile slipping. But she takes his money and gives him change, and he's turning distractedly back to Lucian as he negotiates the complexity of the change purse.

A maniac covered in beads, and hungover, at that. Lucian dashes two helpful splashes of cream in to level off the saturation point, and then a teaspoon of his own coffee. Another little swish left and right, once more to restore a caramel hue of no particular worry. He even leaves a dab of cream floating atop to satisfy everyone's artistic tastes. "Here." A calm nod there as he hands that over to the left side of the tray. The beignets are given to them on plates, one piled high.

"Oh, thank you," says Mike. He's picking his way along for a table, looking for somewhere to deposit the napkins he'ssnagged. All the better to dive in to the pile of sugar and fat.

Whatever has he unleashed on the world? Lucifer Morningstar, destroyer of galaxies. He smugly settles into a seat wherever Michael chooses, one chair hauled back for lounge in without the least bit of difficulty. He makes for a beignet, sampling the powder on his fingers, Might as well rim his lips with it and lick it away, just to see how many people get heart-palpitations as a result. With any luck, someone will set off Michael's hearing and cause any sort of amusing results.

That's Mike's job. But he's never done it by accident….and certainly not to be blamed on a sugar high. This may well be the first. He's tentative as he nibbles, and then sips. IT's the coffee that gets his approval first, and he's working on that. Not yet covered in sugar. That will change, though.

"Try the beignets. These are supposed to be especially popular, though I think they need jam or some kind of chocolate syrup," says Lucian. His own sparing bites are light, rather restrained, since their ratio is one to five, in terms of who has what. "Have you experienced this type of food before?"

His chewing has increased in pace, expression increasingly blissful. That's the other thing Mike's terrible at, in terms of 'Pretending to be human' - he hasn't mastered the kind of reserve a human man of his age might be expected to have. A brief shake of his head - there's already a smear of sugar on his cheek.

The plate of four Lucian pushes closer to Michael. The quick mental countdown confirms the ratio of baking to selling in record time, such that he says, "Another forty ought to do if you are finding those insufficient." He's a jerk, and a glutton for other's gluttony, apparently. He takes a sip of his own black coffee, the hidden fragrance redolent with bitter beans and metal. "Why do people drink this?"

"No, this is enough," Mike says, after a hasty swallow. He flashes Lucian a grin that dazzles with the shimmer of confectioner's sugar. "Well, it's a stimulant for them, especially when you add the right sugars to it," he notes. "And there's something to be said for that bitterness."

"Not a great deal." Lucian downs the coffee in one long sip that makes a cat's cleaning of its paw seem a direct parallel. He puts down the forgettable mug on the table, washing with calm interest as the sugar no doubt will eventually start burning in the physical cellular materials that Michael is vaguely made up of. "We'll have to bring a few different bags of these back, perhaps, something worthy of having together."

Michael nods at that, as he deliberately takes his time. No more wolfing, at the moment. "Maybe something like this at your place," he suggests. Because Lux needs to be famous for its insane desserts, as well as its drinks.

"Lux has desserts," points out the Firstborn. "Have you never tried one of the specials Sam makes, or Ana? A pity. The flambe peaches she put together is particularly good." He almost sighs at the prospect of a fine meal properly balanced with a splash of Grand Marnier and probably too many rare Italian liqueurs to name. "Try more, see whether that tickles your fancy. Have you any thoughts on this business of the bookseller?"

"I just want it back. The whole situation is so bizarre. Where is Raz? He's been obsessed with it since the beginning, how'd anyone pry it away from him who isn't one of us?" Mike seems irritated by it all.

"Raziel when last I checked was imprisoned at the bottom of the celestial sea, and an echo of his avatar restrained under the Atlantic Isles. Hy-Brasil, one of those fool prophets insisted." Lucifer flicks his fingers against a napkin, discarding the faint saturation of powdered sugar. "The book is as much part of him as Metatron and the damned quill. Such would have me think there was coercion or binding, but the secrets therein are not something anyone would part with. Further proof the old bugger isn't on the job."

Michael is tearing at another beignet, with the clean white molars of a fox. "Exactly. Which means that something is very, very wrong. Mortals shouldn't be able to read my name, let alone say it at random like they're calling a dog." …..is Mike offended? It seems so.

"Some will always be able to read your name. Not merely the ones impacted by the influence of my blood, either." Lucifer Morningstar, maker of readers of the ancient tongue of God, is not holding court or responsibility for that one. He runs his finger around the rim of the cup. "How do you properly deter them? Where one walks a path, the others will follow. You should not exactly answer on this chokechain of theirs."

"I can't help it. I suppose I'll kill them on a case by case basis," Mike says, tone casual, dismissive. "Depends on the situation. The path will be closed." Oh, Michael.

Michael flexing his muscles certainly warrants a lift of eyebrows, tawny gold above the unspeakably deep indigo wells beneath his flickering thoughts. Lucian composes his expression to something measured and calm. A napkin allows for cleaning off one of his long pianist's fingers. "Deterrence rather than being strictly reactive is a point to consider."

Michael unashamedly licks his fingers. He no doubt knows it's gauche, now….and doesn't care. "Once we have it safe, certainly," he agrees.

Just wait, just wait. That buzz will hit any time now, and when it does, it will be thoroughly and delightfully spectacular. Lucifer shakes his head slightly. "Once we have the book, I'll make sure it no longer remains out on the open market. Or any market."

He can see it start to hit, the thermometer trying to creeeeep up. "I think I'm going to need to fly and work this off, soon," he says, with that manic glow ever more evident in the blue eyes. "This is a lot of sugar to metabolize."

Not nearly enough of an up, the mercury stays tepid for the indolent creature of the dawn. "No, we shouldn't fly. Too likely something might spot us around here, particularly if any practitioners affiliated with this miserable bookseller have any sort of training." Lucian shakes his head, the blond mane thrown about carelessly. "Stay upon the ground for now. There are plenty of other ways to deal with the energy, and if you cannot tolerate that much, I ought to behead you on the spot as a figment taking the place of Michael Demiurgos."

Michael sighs. He's learned that human gesture to a tee. "You're right," he says, with only a little grumpiness. "What other ways do you suggest?"

"Whatever else is there to do in this town? Explore the cemeteries, visit churches, go to bordellos, drink, eat, drink more, listen to jazz, hear the sorrows and triumphs of a much put-upon people." Lucifer ticks those off one by one, no doubt ruffling a tourist's feathers. Or tourism board, at that matter, for the sultry tone he takes is nigh wicked. "Perhaps we join a rally or encourage the end of segregation by thoroughly vexing the authorities to see that skin colour is not a function of superiority. Mind you, the whole business of their lake here — Pontchartrain, the large one? — is perilously high water and they've a magnificent series of locks and dams and berms to keep the whole thing in check. Throw a boat in there and paddle around, see what the fish have to say. Or you could race the river current going upstream?"

"……what's a bordello?" Mike asks, blinking at Lucian, as he eats a last beignet, more slowly. "The lake sounds nice," he adds, thoughtfully. "I like swimmng in water best of all." As opposed to all the other liquids they swim in.

"A place where women, generally, practice the arts of relaxation and intimacy for paying clients. Men do too, though they are a thing about here." Waving his hand in the direction of a bastion of sin, brick and wrought-iron railings, Lucian flicks his fingers. "Popular when there was far more opium and illicit trade going through."

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